


what we are is unexpected

by bitelikefire (theoleo)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bottom Bucky, M/M, Original Characters - Freeform, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, bucky is the cool uncle, not actually mature i just wanted a change
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-23 07:40:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3760063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoleo/pseuds/bitelikefire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky doesn’t know why people keep asking him for fucking favours. What’s even worse is how he doesn’t understand why he can’t say no and that’s how he ends up babysitting his nephew for his little sister and basically playing cool uncle for the next few weeks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	what we are is unexpected

**Author's Note:**

> I literally wrote this when I wanted to blow my brains out writing a 9 paged paper. Clearly my priorities are fucked. 
> 
> There is a high chance there will be two more parts to this.

Bucky takes one look at the flyer before sliding it back across the table, “yeah, hell no.”

Natasha rolls her eyes, pulling her straw back in her mouth and taking a generous pull of iced tea. “You say that like you have an option,” she says dryly.

“I do – “

“—no you don’t, you owe me –“

“—when will you stop throwing that in my –“

“—consider this payment—“

“-- I repeat, hell no,” he says and pats down his jacket, searching for his cigarettes. He tries not to be dramatic about it, but he also should have known better than to agree to dinner with Natasha and think there wasn’t some ulterior motive. God forbid he see a text for fish tacos and think that’s all there is to it.

“Are you pouting?” She says, “for gods sake, it’s just a charity ball, not a beheading,” and she leans back in her chair, judging him, “I forgot how melodramatic you could be.”

Bucky finally fishes out a cigarette and lights it on the patio they’re at, “you didn’t forget,” he says around it, “you’re just too busy with your boyfriend these days.”

It’s a note to how well he knows Natasha that he pulls his legs in under the table to lessen the brunt of the swift kick he gets. It still hurts though.

“Fine,” she puts her glass down. Her hair is a light ginger from when she dyed it blonde for a "job" a couple of months back and picks up the spoon sitting in her bowl of soup. “Pass me the wine menu?”

Bucky stares at her, and she looks right back at him, face unreadable and large green eyes flat. He looks back to the flyer still on the sticky table.   _NYC Winter Charity Ball: Sponsored by S.H.I.E.L.D and UNICEF. Black tie event._

She quirks an eyebrow. “James.”

Bucky hands her the menu, “fuck you, okay, fine, you win.”

Her smile is devastatingly cat-like.

 

* * *

 

 

The venue is just as extravagant as Bucky expected it to be. Natasha’s long, sparkly black dress was preparation enough, and she has her arm linked with his casually, making it appear like he’s leading her around the place when really, she’s the one whispering which way to turn and who to stop at for some small talk. Small talk that Bucky is pretty bad at, but it turns out fine, because she makes up for it. It’s all shaking hands and speeches on improving our ‘national security’ while still maintaining that ‘protecting our great nation’ must come first. Followed by photo ops and more diplomatic conversation Bucky learns to stop partaking in and tunes himself out before he punches someone in the face.

Her smile drops as soon as the grey haired man, introduced as Governor Harland, walks away after a remarkably dry conversation. “It’s kind of scary how well you can do that,” Bucky points out when they head over to the bar. She removes her hand from his elbow and asks for two glasses of red wine.

“Comes with the job.”

“Makes me wonder how many times you’ve pretended to give a shit about what I say,” he jokes, kind of, and takes the offered glass. It’s filled almost to the brim. She winks, “and I plan to keep it that way.”

“You’re a menace – “

“That she is,” says a voice and Bucky has to turn around to see who it is while Natasha just has to look up. They both roll their eyes together and take large gulps. “Hey Stark,” Bucky says just as Natasha mutters, “you’re late.”

“Woah, don’t get all excited to see me,” he says, “oh, did I miss all the fascinating conversation?” he says and snaps his fingers, “darn.”

“It was a riot,” Natasha deadpans as Tony slid his glasses off and pocket it in his blazer. “Such a coincidence though that you made it just as the bar opened.”

“Sure is,” he says brightly and scoops a flute of champagne from a passing waiter before eyeing Bucky, “how’s the arm?”

Bucky shifts, shoving his left arm into his pocket and angling it away from Tony’s gaze as best as he can. “Fine.”

“ _Fine_? Just fine?” he says, scandalized, “you wound me Barnes.”

“Spectacular. Wonderful. I could probably strangle a man to death with it, better?” Bucky snaps, earning a chuckle from Natasha. Tony on the other hand, makes an affronted noise.

“Oh please, you should see what I’ve got cooking back in the labs,” he starts and his eyes get that weird, mad glint of a shine that happens when he talks about work, “no, seriously, hear me out, I could make you another one that blows that antique out of the water. I’ve been making schematics for a lighter density you know? Totally not for wholesale cause I’m not in that business anymore. Remember Nat – “

“—don’t call me that – “

“—when that RPG went loose in Poland and – “

Bucky makes a tactical retreat then, spinning on his heel and not feeling the least bit guilty for abandoning Natasha because from the way that talk was going, it sounded like the security clearance around it alone would have Bucky black bagged if he stayed within earshot. Tony never seems to particularly care that Bucky is in fact a civilian, and Bucky really doesn't want to end up in some camp in Serbia faster than he can say gulag, so he wanders away, glass still in hand and not sure where he’s going until he stops short; something catching his attention outside of his peripheral.

It's a mural, which shouldn't be making him pause because the venue has several that he's seen already, but this one is different.   
  
It's enormous -- 80 by 160, by the looks of it, depicting the devastation of Washington two years ago in gradations of greys and blues and gold. There are bits of metal and even the flames in it are painted in faint grey. It should be grotesque, maybe even sobering looking at it, but Bucky finds that he's more captivated by the sheer honesty behind it. And the only bright colour preening from the top right hand corner, almost shimmering down is a light gold. Like hope.   
  
He's a little moved. It's embarrassing.  
  
Bucky looks down at his near empty glass, judging it a little like it's the culprit when someone saddles next to him. "What garbage." And Bucky turns, frowning already.  
  
The guy is a few inches shorter than Bucky; small enough that Bucky has to tilt his head down to see a crown of blonde hair. He looks up at him, raising both his eyebrows and Bucky's momentarily distracted by the angle of his jaw line and pink of his lips before his brain signals back.   
  
"What?"  
  
The guy nods his head to the mural. He's dressed in the mandatory black suit, but the jacket is unbuttoned and his tie is loosened. "That."  
  
The defensiveness he feels doesn't even make sense, and he's speaking before he knows it, "I dunno, I think it's great." _Thank you very much --_  
  
He gets a shrug in response and the guy turns his attention back to the mural, mouth frowning, "the shading is off on these parts," he points to four different sections with the hand that's not holding a tumbler of what looks like whiskey, "like it was rushed. Not really blended that well."   
  
Bucky squints at him when he looks back at him expectantly. "Everybody's a critic here ain't they."  
  
He gets a smile, which surprises him. "I guess I can be though."  
  
"Why? You get a kick out of tearing down people's work?"  
  
"Only when I make them."  
  
Bucky's mouth opens and then closes, and the blondes smile only gets bigger, extending a hand. Bucky takes it, feeling the heat start to creep on his face. "Oh. Well -- then--"   
  
"Steve," he says, introducing himself, "sorry," he adds and at least has the decency to look apologetic. "I'm just so bored here and I can’t really leave yet --"  
  
"Nah it’s fine, I can see you like to rile up complete strangers for social experiments. Did it help?" 

"A little,” he says, a shy smile teasing his lips, “I'm real glad you liked it. It took a lot of time, but not enough." And Bucky's finding it hard to even be a fraction upset at the way Steve smiles.

So.

"Bucky," he says and then finishes his wine. "And for the record, I'm fucking bored too."

Steve hums, rocking a bit on his heels. The timbre of his voice is low and almost vibrates in his throat. "Dragged by a friend?"

"Yup."  
  
A pause, where Steve tilts his head to the side, like he's weighing some options. Bucky notices he has dark brown moles on the side of his neck, and that his jaw isn't as clean shaven as it looked at first glance.  
  
"I heard they're serving free beverages down near the garden outside. Maybe some decent finger food." His voice is purposefully trained, sounding calm.  
  
Bucky scans the room, still bustling with dignitaries and agents and boring shatter. Natasha hasn’t found him yet, but he’s not sure how long of a window he has left until she does. "Alcoholic beverages?" The flat look Steve gives him makes Bucky snort, and Steve grins. "Lead the way."  

 

* * *

 

 

Steve is… well.

Steve is nothing what Bucky expected him to be, which although wasn’t much, he expected some cockiness or mocking from the artist, but all Steve mocks is the lighting outside under the terrace: “ _jesus,_ thankfully I have my contacts in, how are people supposed to read the menus?”

To be honest, Steve is a breath of fresh air in this place. And Bucky doesn’t only think that because they’re outside right now, listening to the distinguished bartenders go into detail about the history of the wines and delicate notes of the different types of tequila, just so they can have them for free. Bucky notices how the more they drink, the brighter the shade of pink grows on Steve’s pale cheeks and how loose his tongue gets.

He genuinely means what he says; from the way he answers Bucky’s questions about his education and inspiration for the mural, the way his voice drops a little, like sharing a secret when Bucky asks how he became an artist – “I’m not really a certified painter. Well, I have taken some classes but it’s not my profession. But it’s…” he pauses then, baritone dropping, “great. A great stress reliever for my day job,” and then, “are we seriously supposed to taste chocolate in this one?”

He’s also unexpectedly funny without trying to be, humor dry in ways that remind him of Natasha. He notices the metal arm, eyes flicking to it briefly but doesn’t push any questions about it and there’s a mischievous boyishness to his gait, like a ten year old boy is trapped beneath that slim body that Bucky is not beginning to try to picture with lesser clothes on.

But that confidence dwindles, whenever someone notices him and asks him about the mural. “I just can’t be around all those politicians for too long,” he explains, after Bucky watches him uncomfortably accept praise for his artwork a few times, but enough times for him to start nudging Bucky when they get too close to some important person, drags them somewhere further away. Which is a difficult feat to achieve and Bucky’s sort of impressed, considering the majority of people attending are exactly those type of people.

(“I don’t…” he trails, trying to find the words, “I don’t agree with them. They talk a lot, but they don’t really, you know, do,” he finishes and Bucky gets it.)

It’s almost midnight when they push themselves out of the garden party enough to find a large marble fountain, sitting on the edges and Bucky, while holding his share of a pear and gorgonzola crostini, is not only dizzy from the amount he’s already had to drink, but over the realization that the last three hours with Steve, no longer a stranger, has been the best three hours he’s had in a long time. How he can already feel so attached to someone he didn’t know existed until tonight.

“Holy – is that the time?” Steve says, pulling back his shirt sleeve to look at his watch. His wrists are pale and delicate looking and Bucky doesn’t know why he’s fixating on them; the clear blue veins beneath the skin. He discarded his jacket a while ago, and it’s lain across his lap. Bucky kind of wishes he’d put it back on. The white button up doesn’t fit him well and it’s collar is loose enough to see the hollowness of his throat.  “I’m so sorry,” he says, and bites at his bottom lip.

Bucky frowns around a bite, “why?”

“Your friend?” he offers, blue eyes glossy. He must be feeling it too. “Didn’t you mention you came with someone?”

Bucky blinks. He completely forgot about Natasha, “it’s fine, I think she can handle a few hours without me.”

Something deflates in Steve’s posture when he says that, eyes darting to the side before rolling his shoulders and scratching the stubble at his jaw. Bucky knows those ticks. “Oh.”

Bucky waits it out, and takes another bite. It’s really good, for a finger sample.

“You sure your girlfriend won’t mind?” The pause between ‘your’ and ‘girlfriend’ can hardly even be defined as a pause for how quick it was, but that doesn’t mean Bucky didn’t hear it. Something beneath his ribcage jumps and he tries not to smile around swallowing down the food. Steve’s not looking at him, but at his hands.

“Natasha’s just a friend,” he says clearly, and adds, “and pal, she is way too out of my league for that anyway.”

Steve looks at him after that, right in the eye and says defiantly, “somehow I doubt that.” And that? Bucky doesn’t know what to do with that and he hopes he’s not gaping like an idiot, basically waving a written invitation for Steve to jump his bones already if that’s what he means when –

Steve’s blue eyes dart down to the half-eaten crostini. “Are you going to finish that?” And takes it anyway, finishing it in one bite. Bucky blinks. Steve grins and he shouldn’t still look so perfect with how his cheeks are full.

“Wanna get some burgers and get the hell outta here?” He suggests and Bucky, honestly, has never heard anything more beautiful in all his life.

 

* * *

 

 

The burgers at Burger King taste better than they normally do when he’s sober. Steve thinks so too, leaning on Bucky and together, attacking two small cheeseburgers.

The sex though? That’s even better.

 

* * *

 

The morning however, is shit.

The headache is what wakes Bucky up, and he can’t gather enough strength within himself to even open his eyes but still, knows he’s not at home in his own bed. The memories of last night start to trickle in like hot molasses and he has to lift his hips up from the mattress to avoid getting hard again. Although, technically, that wouldn’t be such a bad idea. Especially because of how the arm thrown over his back starts to shift and fingers dip into his side almost territorially, and Steve wriggles closer. Bucky smiles into the pillow.

Steve inhales deeply, pulling Bucky in and he finally opens his eyes as he rolls over to look at him.

Steve’s eyes are squinted, bleary from sleep and the back of his hair is sticking up. Some random tuffs making him look a little silly, until Bucky remembers they’re like that because he had his hands in them, carding through it while Steve did his damn best to drive him crazy with his hot mouth around his cock. “Hi,” he says, voice low and raspy.

“Hey,” Bucky says and gets cut off by a yawn he stifles into the pillow. Steve laughs, kicking him lightly under the sheets.

“You can go back to sleep if you want.”

“That, sounds like a plan,” Bucky muffles out and nudges Steve back. Steve runs a hand through his fringe, obviously trying to flatten it out. “Well, you’re lucky it’s a Saturday.”

“Mm,” Bucky hums and then –

His eyes snap open, body tensing and Steve turns to him, concerned. “Bucky?”

Bucky all but flings himself off the bed, caught in the sheets and nearly falling face first onto the hard wood floor, cursing along the way. “Bucky,” Steve says again, getting to a sitting position and watches as Bucky gathers his scattered clothes.

“—fuck _fuck_ , shit, my sister, god, I’m late, she hates it when I’m late, _shit_ ,” Bucky scrambles out and pulls his briefs on, snatching his trousers and turning them right side out. His phone is in one of the pockets and reads 12:38pm, along with a string of missed calls and texts. One from Natasha and the rest from Becca. He was supposed to meet her for brunch at 12:30.

He’s got his button up half way done up and Steve’s still just staring at him from his spot on the bed, bare, bird-thin chest all that’s visible, but expression locked down, unreadable. He looks awake now, completely alert and follows Bucky’s every move as he puts his shoes on and pats his jacket down for his keys and wallet.

“Steve,” he says, and walks over to the bed, “I’m sorry, but I really gotta go,” and daringly presses a kiss to his warm mouth. Steve kisses back, albeit weakly and nods before laying back down on his back, stare fixed on the ceiling. “It’s fine,” is all he says.

Bucky knows a dismissal when he hears one, and tries not to let it show how much it feels like a punch in the gut as he goes.

 

* * *

 

 

He has to take the metro back to the charity ball to grab his car and thanks every god there is that he left his sunglasses in the drink container because the sun is way too bright for the level his hangover is at.

By the time he reaches the café, it’s just hitting 1pm and Rebecca Barnes does not look happy.

But to be fair, neither is he. And he can’t parse out if the heaviness in his stomach is from nausea or from the look on Steve’s face.

“Wow, you really could not look more hungover if you tried,” Becca says, sprinkling sugar onto her grapefruit a little bitterly. He apologized ten times already and refuses to say it again, nursing a coffee.

“I didn’t exactly plan for that to happen,” he says and gets a look that reads: _yeah, I don’t buy that at all._ “So what did you need to tell me that you chose to seclude me without any back up and divert my attention with food?”

Becca blinks, shocked and Bucky smirks. “I may be practically dead right now but I’m still your older brother. Is it money? I really hope it’s not money, cause you and I both know you make more than me. And you have mom for that, so what do you want, spit it out before I pass out.”

 

* * *

 

 

“ _Why the hell do you need to go to Greece?!_ ”

“Bucky, seriously, I need you to do this for me.

“No.”

“Buck, please.”

“You can forget it.”

“Please – “

“Ask mom.”

“I’m asking you!”

Bucky glares at her and she glares right back.

Until. “You owe me for a lifetime Becca.”

She sags with relief, but her grin is blinding. “You’re the best.”

“No,” he says, stealing all of her bacon and dumping them onto his plate. “I’m not.”

 

* * *

 

And that's how Bucky ends up agreeing to babysit his ten year old nephew, who isn't much of a baby anymore, for the first two weeks of school once the holiday break is over.

Becca made sure Tom booked their itinerary for after Christmas, so they could spend it together as a family, which gives Bucky a little over two weeks to prepare himself.  

'For what?” Alex says over the phone skeptically, already sounding a bit mature for his age, and then his voice climbed an octave, excited in a whisper, “are we going on a road trip instead Uncle Buck?”

He only calls him Uncle Buck when he's buttering him up. “I have to cover all the electrical sockets and baby proof my apartment,” Bucky dead-pans and cracks up laughing as Alex starts to holler at him over the line – “ _Mom!”_ he whines before Becca steals the phone back.    

* * *

 

Here’s the thing: Steve Rogers is a ridiculously common name and Bucky knows it, but still types it into the search bar and tries to narrow the search down by including the charity ball. It works: to have an image of the painting and a little bio on the artwork. There are no photos of Steve anywhere on the website and in his last ditch to check Facebook, the sight of the countless possible matches just makes him want to pull out his hair.  
  
Bucky throws himself back in his seat defeated, tilts his head up and runs a hand through his hair, contemplating seriously ripping it out for not having the simple neutrons to have asked for Steve's number before leaving without --  
  
Bucky's eyes snap open, his gut sinking. 

It falls together; Steve’s watchful gaze, distant and assessing as Bucky stumbled over his feet, gathering his things in a blurry rush. The empty kiss he gave back to Bucky, empty and – sad. _He thinks I ditched him on purpose_ , Bucky thinks --  _that I wasn’t ever planning on_ – he breaks off with a sigh and stares at the computer screen.  

That’s just the thing; he wasn’t planning, there was never a stylized plan with Steve. But maybe…maybe, they could have gotten something to eat to curve the hangover, find a breakfast spot and maybe then…  Bucky takes a look at his phone. He could call Natasha, ask to have a look at the invite list. There may be a contact number there. But he immediately shoots that down. Natasha is intrinsic by nature and the questions and suspicions on why he’d even ask in the first place would hail over him. It’s basically asking for open season.

And now that he’s got time to think about it and see the whole picture, Bucky highly doubts Steve would want to see his face again if he did.  

* * *

 

“Greece huh,” Natasha says later.

They’re in the studio at Natasha’s place doing yoga; she called him over, needing company and a partner for her weekly kick-boxing Tuesdays. “Good spot. I haven’t been there since I was twenty four,” she sounds fond, “good for her.” 

“Yeah, good for her,” Bucky grumbles more to himself, but she hears him anyway and  gives him a dry, sideways look next to him, mouth pursed through their shared reflections in the mirrors ahead.

“First of all, you’re not a parent so quit complaining, and second, no one believes that whole ‘I hate kids’ thing you’ve got going on,” Natasha says easily, shifting with Bucky from warrior one pose to warrior two, “you love that kid.” 

“I know,” he says forcefully, “but probably not for fourteen days in a row -- shit,” Bucky curses, knee wobbling. She turned up the heat in the room and while they’re both sweating, Natasha looks more like she’s glistening and not dripping in it like Bucky is now. “Couldn’t you have asked your – ah, boyfriend?” 

Natasha moves into warrior three and then perfectly swoops into a downward facing dog. “What makes you think I didn’t? Clint’s as flexible as a board. You’re my back-up.” 

“Gee, thanks,” Bucky mumbles and follows her, with not as much as grace, holding there for ten seconds before lifting one leg up and alternating. Natasha turns her head to him, no-make up and smiles right as she brings her leg down and plops down on the hard floor, spreading her legs in a wide split.  

“C’mon, help me stretch,” she says and reaches her hands out. Bucky rolls his eyes and copies her till they’re both sitting with bare feet barely inches apart and takes her hands, pulling her forward. “Thanks,” she’s basically almost folded over, nose an inch above the ground. Bucky’s vaguely impressed.

“Out of dance for six years and you’re still as bendy as when I met you,” he mentions and lets her rise up, “woah, wait,” he manages to get out before she smirks, pulling him forward this time.  

“I can say the same for you,” she teases and okay, fine, Bucky lets her do it and shows off the same flexibility. “I still don’t know why you quit.” 

“I still don’t know why you care,” he bites behind an appreciative groan, the pull in his hamstrings feels amazing.  

“You were good,” she tugs further, testing him and he goes along with it and holds there. 

“Better than you, but then I figured,” Bucky grunts, “Madame Celine wouldn’t have made you her star pupil if I stuck around so – hey!”

Natasha lets him go, swinging a kick to his side but he catches her by the ankle. She laughs and leans back on her palms and lets Bucky leave her leg on his lap.  “So,” she begins, “what’s up.” 

Bucky blinks at her; lost. “Uh, nothing?” 

Natasha rolls her eyes and pulls out the elastic band in her sweaty hair, letting it fall, “you’ve been acting odd,” she says and pulls out her trump with a casual flair, like she’s talking about the weather, “this about Steve?” 

Bucky feels poleaxed. His mouth is slack; mainly because his brain is struggling with trying to figure out if Natasha has been a robot all this time, because there’s no doubt that she’s intuitive, but this is something else entirely.  She smiles tightly, “relax, I saw you go off with him that night,” she starts to poke his ribs with her big toe, “he’s cute.” 

Bucky tries to glare at her, which he knows will only encourage her more, before seeing the wide oppourtunity blinking at him in the face. He looks at a spot over her shoulder and clears his throat, “do you…know,” Bucky makes a face and dares to look back at her and she’s preening. “Know him?”  

“I know _of_ him,” she replies, tilting her head, “but we have a friend in common. You know you could have just asked, I’m sure I can get S—“ 

“No,” Bucky says sharply, surprising himself and Natasha’s eyebrows climb. He gently moves her leg from his lap, “I mean, it’s okay. It’s been weeks. I’m sure he’s over it and has other things to do,” and he gets up, stretching and ignoring the way Natasha stares up at him. If this was two weeks ago, he would have jumped at the chance, hell, he would have ribbed Natasha for not telling him immediately after the next morning. But it’s too fucking late. 

“James – “ _Oh god, not James._

“I’m gonna use your shower,” he says over her and leaves the studio.  

* * *

 

 

Alex practically barrels into his gut when he opens the door the next morning, arms latched around his waist and waking Bucky up at ten in the morning. He hasn’t had any coffee yet, which explains why everything is so bright right now. Becca has her long brown hair tied in a messy ponytail and is able to pry Alex away to kiss him and ruffle his hair, “call me if anything,” she says seriously and then waves before she head down the hall of Bucky’s apartment floor.

He blinks down at Alex, who has luggage with him and is bouncing with energy while Bucky wants nothing more than another five hours of sleep. “Uh,” he rubs at his eye, “I can make you some killer waffles if you promise to take a nap after.”

Alex preens.

 

* * *

 

 

Half awake, Bucky makes his from scratch waffles with cut up strawberries, bananas and blueberries and opens his jar of chocolate hazelnut spread that he hadn’t had the chance of opening, just for Alex to dump it on his breakfast. Or second breakfast, according to the kid, who munches on a two layer stack of it happily, while Bucky drinks black coffee.

“So when does school start back for you?” Bucky asks, pouring another cup for himself. Alex makes a face and douses more syrup on his waffles until it’s coated in it.

“Tomorrow,” he says sadly.

“I thought you liked school.” Bucky says, confused. Alex is one of the top students; he loves school and although he complains about homework, he always finishes it on time with prime marks. Bucky frowns a little, when Alex hesitates to go on further and ignores his phone. It buzzes on the counter for a long while, the caller displaying – **Clint** \--  in favour of his nephews face. He’s lost some child fat, but still, he’s a kid. Hair auburn, due to his red-headed father, but his blue eyes belong to the Barnes. Skin pale from the winter.

“I do,” Alex says earnestly and pushes his cut up waffles around his plate, “I like my teacher and all but,” he shrugs and stabs a small piece of his breakfast, “I never see you.”

Something in Bucky’s chest dies then, has to have; he sets his mug down and Alex shovels more food into his mouth, almost embarrassingly and it tugs at the edges of Bucky’s mouth. He nudges Alex, sending him playfully to the side a little.

“Punk,” Bucky says, voice swelling and Alex smiles, “you say that now but you’ll hate me once I kick your butt in Halo.”

The grin he gets is worth it; Alex straightens in his seat before barrelling off like a rocket to grab his game station out of his luggage, talking pure smack the entire way back to Bucky’s living room and Bucky watches, happily, before he says. “if I win, I get dibs on pizza toppings tonight.”

Alex plops down on the floor, shrugs his shoulders as the game loads. “I’ve been practicing.”

 

* * *

 

 

 _I’ve been practicing_ , means that Alex has gotten better. And Bucky means exceptionally better, to the point where Bucky actually worries that he’ll lose in a sniper game.

In the end, Alex only loses by 10 points, which is too close for Bucky. Alex ends the game tired but smiling and proud, and takes another slice of pizza with so much meat on it there’s hardly any cheese. He ordered his own personal one even though he won, because Bucky can’t deny that kid anything even if he wanted and everyone knows it. Especially Alex.

 

* * *

 

It’s not exactly difficult.

They get up roughly around the same hour in the morning, Bucky getting into the shower ten minutes earlier just in case Alex decides to sleep in but also so he can sprinkle water on his face when he gets out.

He scrambles up breakfast for the both of them while Alex gets ready and either hands him some cash to buy lunch at the school or has something pre-packaged already waiting in the fridge.

Alex made a face the first morning, when Bucky turned on cartoons for something to watch with a wide toothy grin, earning a generous eye-roll. It quickly became a running joke every morning, until it wasn’t anymore and they actually sat on the couch together, laughing at Looney Tunes.

He drops him off on the way to the garage, goes to work and picks him up; Bucky eerily gets the feeling that Becca knew that his work schedule would align perfectly with Alex’s. Five days out of the week, Alex plops into the passenger seat after dismissal, bright and smiling and already talking Bucky’s ear off about his day. It’s not hard. It’s actually sort of…fun. Not that he’d ever admit that to Natasha, who he hasn’t talked to since New Year’s, something he may or may not be doing purposefully.

And then he gets the phone-call.

 

* * *

 

 

Bucky’s entire body freezes when he sees the display screen of his phone with the name of Alex’s elementary school. It takes two rings before he snatches it and answers a little frantically, “hello?” Barely holding back the stream of questions building on his tongue.

A woman responds, “Hello, Mr. Barnes? This is Ms. Carter, are you Alex’s uncle?” She sounds calm, which helps. A little.

Bucky heads for a corner away from the welding noises, waves off a concerned look from Gabe. “Yeah, is he,” he swallows, “is he okay?”

“He’s not feeling well, I think he caught the stomach flu that’s been going around,” she sounds apologetic, “he’s spending lunch inside the classroom and asked if you could pick him up if that’s possible?”

It’s not. Not really, but Bucky doesn’t really care and says, “yeah, I’ll be right over. Room 206 right?”

 

* * *

 

 

Bucky knows he’s fortunate to have Gabe as a co-worker, and tells him he’ll explain the situation to their boss for him as Bucky grabs his leather coat and throws it on hastily over his dirty work outfit. He probably breaks some speed limits driving over to the school, because he makes it in record time; fifteen minutes before the end of the lunch hour but still has the common sense to run his hands through his hair and re-tie it securely, wipe his oily hands on his jeans.

The class room isn’t hard to find, and a blonde woman is standing at the door way, watching him approach and waves. “Hi, Mr. Barnes?” She’s dressed in jeans and a warm cardigan, hair reaching her shoulders, “we spoke on the phone.”

Bucky nods and takes her hand gently, “yeah, are you his teacher?”

She shakes her head and turns to open the door to the room, “no, I’m the art teacher down the hall, his home room teacher is just keeping Alex company while we waited,” she says, reassures him with a small smile and Bucky follows her in.

The room is bright and large, desks in rows of three with works of student art placed along the walls and a coat rack near the front door. Alex is sitting at the front where the teacher’s desk is, head bowed and drawing with crayons next to –

“Hey Alex, someone’s here for you,” Ms. Carter says playfully, leaning on the door frame with a odd grin on her face and Alex looks up just as the man next to him does.

Bucky’s pretty sure he’s dreaming.

He’s also pretty sure he’s gaping like an idiot, because it’s Steve. Steve fucking Rogers, sitting next to his nephew and looking as equally concussed as Bucky feels right now, blue eyes round and wide behind glasses.

“About time, ugh,” Alex groans and moves to stand. He looks terrible, hair a mess and shoulders on his bag, already walking past him towards the door as Steve gets up. He doesn’t resemble a lick of what he looked like at the charity ball; now, dressed in a way that shamefully gives the illusion that he’s not a foul mouthed, smartass whirlwind of a person. The dark blue button up tucked into light trousers makes him look harmlessly innocent. And his glasses -- _actual prescription glasses, that_ Bucky remembers Steve mentioning he seriously needs.  

“Mr. Barnes,” Ms. Carter says, breaking the silence and jarring them both, Steve jumps.  “Do I have permission to take Alex down to the office for a sign out? It’ll only take about five minutes and you can meet us down there? I’ll wait with him.”

Bucky looks down at Alex who just yawns, leaning on her, “yeah, I’ll be right there okay bud?” And gets a sleepy nod from Alex before they leave and Bucky has only two seconds to realize the out he was overtly given, just as the panic starts to settle in. He turns back to Steve who is looking at him with an entirely different expression, a twinge of foreboding.

“Hi,” Bucky starts and thankfully manages to get his voice out evenly. Steve blinks up at him, stepping closer and clears his throat, having to actually shake his head a little. His right hand twitches, like he was about to go in for a handshake before realizing how completely idiotic that would be.

“Please, _please_ tell me I didn’t sleep with a married man.”

“What,” Bucky says and then, “no, what? No, I’m his uncle,” he rushes and Steve stares, “I’m just watching him until his parents get back from vacation. Seriously.”

“Oh,” Steve deflates, and then exhales, his fringe fluttering, “oh thank god.”

“Jesus, what kind of guy do you think I am?” He meant it as a joke, but it doesn’t really sound like one.

Steve’s jaw ticks and he looks right at Bucky defiantly, “I don’t know Bucky, why don’t you tell me.”

Bucky feels his pulse spike at the heat behind those words. And while his instincts want to protect himself against them, he knows Steve has a point here. Bucky sighs, “okay, point taken,” he says, and looks at his hands. _Are they sweating?_ “But it’s not what you think.”

Something in Steve’s eyes flash warningly, and despite saying nothing, Bucky gets the message: _tread fucking lightly._

“I really was late, and after…” _that amazing sex_ , “you know,” he says instead, lowering his voice even though there’s no one else in the room. Steve’s face gives no hint that he heard what was meant in between, “I didn’t think to set up my alarm. I didn’t mean to – I shouldn’t have—“

“You ran out of there pretty fast,” Steve interrupts, crossing his arms.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says voice lowering, “I wasn’t planning – “ he breathes, frustrated with himself, “it wasn’t going to be one-time thing for me, and I left before I could tell you that or even realize what it would… look like to you. Running out of there,” he catches the change in Steve’s eyes. The change of expression, but he still looks at him with a hint of suspicion – hope, maybe and Bucky has to look away, feeling awkward after just basically admitting what he didn’t even mean to say aloud. He fixes his gaze on a wilting pot of plants near the window sill.

Steve doesn’t say anything for a while and Bucky would be lying if he was nervous to look back at him, but he does, when he hears Steve laugh. A deep chuckle hidden behind the back of his hand and staring at him. He has that look on his face that Bucky can’t put his finger on or identify, apart from the fact that he likes it, wants to see more of it. Bucky doesn’t realize he’s smiling until he notices that Steve is too, if only marginally.

“If it’s any consolation I did try to find you after. Did you know your name on Facebook has over twenty-two million results? ” Bucky says lightly and Steve laughs then, a full bodied one and says after, “I don’t have a Facebook idiot, and well, you did.”

“Kind of weird though,” Bucky says randomly, the reality of everything hitting him again.

“But a good kind of weird,” the _‘right?’_ is heard blaringly when Steve says it, almost hopeful.

Bucky gives him his best grin, “fuck yes.”

Steve laughs just as the end of lunch bell rings.


End file.
